Fall Down Go Boom!
by girl in the glen
Summary: Three agents, three explosions... one crazy THRUSH. Written for the Section 7 PicFic Tuesday challenge on LJ. This one is now complete.
1. Chapter 1

"There's one for each of you; a little something extra for my favorite UNCLE agents."

The sultry tone of the man's voice did nothing to diminish the dismay being felt by the objects of Henry Jones' torment. Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin and Kitt Kittridge were each standing at the window in Jones' apartment that overlooked the strange testing ground built for him by THRUSH.

"You can blow up a row of exploding boxes. Are we supposed to be impressed by that?"

Napoleon knew there was more to it, of course. The fact that Jones had gone to the trouble to capture each of them, from entirely different parts of the world, gave some measure of brevity to the situation. There was obviously _a point_ in the offing.

"Always the one with a cool, smart reply eh, Mr. Solo? Well, as I am certain you have already surmised, the importance of this little demonstration goes far beyond some simple need to flex my muscles in front of UNCLE's finest.'

Jones rose from his throne like seat to the left of the agents and approached the one nearest him; Illya didn't flinch when a leather lash came down hard on his shoulders, in spite of the pain. He did seethe sufficiently, however. Kitt looked on in admiration; something about the Russian had impressed the Scot when they'd first met in London. His reserve was no more a front than the bravery he exhibited now.

Jones saw the look on Kittidge's face and harrumphed at the admiration he recognized coming from the red headed agent. Kuryakin would bend, as would all of these men.

"You see, gentlemen, my toil and, to be honest, my genius, have brought me far in the Hierarchy. Unlike you three, I do not find it sufficiently satisfying to merely do a good job. I have plans for domination that far exceed the paltry schemes of THRUSH."

Kittridge snorted, his red beard unable to soften the sound.

"Aye, that's a rare bird indeed, with plans for world domination. What do ya say, lads, to that?"

Napoleon grinned, his defiance was written all over his face.

"I'd say it's just one more megalomaniac with another big idea."

The lash came down on Napoleon's back this time, barely eliciting a whisper of pain from the stalwart American. _God save us from another THRUSH maniac_, he thought to himself. It did little to assuage the sting of that leather whip.

Illya grimaced in empathy at the sound of Jones' instrument of torture

"I don't suppose you're going to tell us exactly what your plans are, Jones. We don't want to hear it, of course, so just save the breath it would take and get on with whatever it is you have in mind. I, for one, am growing bored with this exhibition."

Illya's speech had exactly the desired effect. Henry Jones huffed and puffed, just a little, and proceeded to tell them his entire plan, including the part where he blows up THRUSH Central. That seemed to be the reason he needed Kuryakin. Kitt wondered why he was there, since explosives were not his specialty, and for that matter neither were they Napoleon's.

"If you wanted an explosives expert then Illya is certainly the man for the job.'

Kuryakin shot his partner a scathing look, his blue eyes a shade icier than usual.

"In fact, it seems unnecessary to have Mr. Kittridge or myself here at all. So, why exactly are we here?"

Henry Jones was very pleased with this conversation. He loved nothing more than extolling his own virtues and abilities. A captive audience was always welcome for doing that.

"Ah, Mr. Solo, you get to the heart of the matter, do you not."

"I try. Thank you for noticing."

The smile on Napoleon's face served to placate Jones a little more, indulging his sense of superiority by finding a bit of repartee with this intelligent man. Even if he was going to kill Solo, there might as well be civil and agreeable conversation.

"Well, now that you mention it…'

Jones grinned impishly, his delight at having captured these three now more complete for the entertainment it provided.

"I do need Mr. Kuryakin's expertise in explosives, although you have witnessed the veracity of my ability to destroy. Those three fireballs would certainly produce the desired effect."

Illya was a little confused. How often did THRUSH need to recruit an UNCLE agent to do their dirty work?

"If you can do what we just witnessed, why do you need me?"

Again, Jones was gratified. They were such dolts at times.

"Mr. Kuryakin, Illya… May I call you Illya?"

"No. I'd really rather prefer that you do not,"

That reply threw Jones, and he backed up a little, as though he'd been slapped.

"That is really rather rude, Illya. You see, I can call you anything I like. Illya, Illya, Illya. Haha… try and stop me."

Illya merely rolled his eyes, an obvious sign of disdain.

Whap! Another stroke from the whip drew blood this time as it creased the blond's back. A bad attitude was beginning to brew, and suddenly Napoleon realized that, as Jones had moved closer, he was providing the UNCLE agents an opportunity.

Illya sank down to the floor, feigning a sudden loss of strength. Napoleon turned towards Henry Jones in order to keep the man's attention with him and away from Illya, who was maneuvering his arms and legs so that he could get his hands in front of his body. Napoleon saw it, always amazed at that feat from his partner.

The limber agent managed to get himself positioned just as Napoleon was enticing Jones to come closer and tell him more of the story, and when he did, Illya was close enough to Henry Jones to tackle him.

Kitt, his hands still behind his back, dove on top of Jones while Napoleon located a cord hanging from the draperies. He pulled on them, still operating with his hands behind his back, and was able to disengage it from the fabric in time to hand it off to Illya, who promptly tied up the now whimpering THRUSH.

"Gee fellas, it looks like we have a little birdie that needs to be taken back to headquarters. Henry, you should never gather three UNCLE agents in one room. Something bad is always bound to happen, and mostly to the one making that mistake."

Illya was untying Napoleon's wrists, who in turn untied Kitt. The three men stood in front of the window now, the dissipating smoke a grey reminder of the explosions they had so recently witnessed.

Jones looked up at his former prey, his eyes full of more disappointment than typical THRUSH madness.

"I don't understand. How did you three manage to ruin everything so completely? My three glorious explosions were intended to strike fear into your souls, to grind you to immediate submission."

He was wailing, seemingly unable to fathom the superiority of the three men who faced him.

Illya, in a casually dismissive tone, supplied an answer to Henry's lament.

"It would seem, Henry Jones, that you are simply incompetent. Perhaps that will help you to contain any future plans for world domination, as I fear they will all end badly."

Kitt and Napoleon nodded their agreement. Henry Jones really wasn't much of a megalomaniac, actually. Pretty poor at it, by the look of things.

"Yeah, Henry… I think you'd do well to just give up this business and try something a little less … hmmm… challenging. Illya's right, you're pretty incompetent as world domineering types go."

Henry was reluctant to give up his dreams, but Solo had a point. He had failed miserably, and now THRUSH would be wanting their pound of flesh… and bone. He was going to be punished.

"Do you think I could join UNCLE?"

The three agents all shook their heads in unison. Napoleon spoke for all of them.

"No, I don't think so Henry. Do you have a second career choice, aside from all of this…?"

He pointed around the room from the throne chair to the expansive window with the view of his doomed threat.

Henry looked beaten, his eyes no longer bright with enthusiastic madness. He was simply undone by all of this.

"I never wanted to be anything else. This is my dream."

Illya was astounded at the stupidity of it all. What a complete waste of a lifetime.

"Napoleon, did you see where he put our communicators?"

The American looked around, somewhere by that chair… He strode towards that lofty piece of furniture and was gratified to see all three communicators in a small porcelain bowl. It seems they were being kept, for souvenirs perhaps.

"Here they are. I'll call this in…'

Napoleon uncapped the pen and raised the little antennae…

"Open channel D, this is Solo."

"Ah, yes, Mr. Solo. I have been wondering if…er, when I'd be hearing from you. I understand you have some company there?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Kittridge and Mr. Kuryakin are both here, and all three of us are fine. We also have Henry Jones, and he seems willing to be a guest of UNCLE. May we have transport to this location? I will set the homing signal."

"Very well, Mr. Solo. I expect you had some excitement earlier, a series of explosions I believe."

"Yes sir. How did you know?"

"Er, Mr. Solo, surely by now you realize it is my business to know such things. Mr. Jones has been under observation for some time, and his attention to things of, shall we say an explosive nature, are well known. We did not foresee him kidnapping all of you, however. Although, Mr. Kuryakin was not a surprise, I suppose."

"Interesting. In any event, sir, we will have him ready for transport and all of us will be glad to get out of here. It smells a little like gasoline and sulphur."

"Indeed, the devil's own work, I'd say. Carry on, gentlemen. Wavelry out."

With that the conversation ended, Napoleon looked back over towards the throne. Illya had tied Henry snugly into his own chair.

"We'll have a ride in less than an hour."

Illya was contemplating their situation, the three explosions they had witnessed. Something wasn't quite right.

"Henry, do you have any other explosives ready to detonate? Those three weren't the last, were they."

The last was not a question. Illya now felt as though there was something else to dread, and that Henry was not completely vanquished in his efforts; he was THRUSH, after all.

"You see, that's why I chose you, Illya Kuryakin. You are the best, even your instincts lend themselves to sniffing out explosives.'

Henry Jones preened just a little, like a peacock spreading his feathers. He felt special again.

"I absolutely do have another surprise for all of you. I thought it was ruined, but now it seems just knowing that you are worried will give me some final satisfaction."

Napoleon was alarmed at that word.

"Final? What have you done, Henry?"

Henry simply shook his head.

"I shan't tell you. That would spoil my fun."

Illya quickly gathered up the communicators and, with a quick perusal of the area around Henry's throne he located their weapons.

"Out! Now, we're leaving here and quickly. Henry has most certainly booby trapped this place, for what reason I dare not speculate.'

Illya eyed the strange fellow who had brought them all to this place, amazed always at the caliber of miscreants that flocked to THRUSH.

"Why did you do it, Henry? Afraid you'd end up dead and we would be caught here, as a punishment?"

Henry whimpered again. Suddenly his plan didn't seem all that much the work of a genius, not really. _He was about to kill himself._

"Please take me with you. I did set it to explode if you weren't stationed to take the controls of the unit. You, Illya, you were the key. I don't suppose I can cajole you into blowing up an ocean liner?"

All three of the UNCLE agents shook their heads in disbelief. What an incredible piece of work this one was.

"No, Henry I won't blow up anything for you. We'll take you with us, but you'd better not have any more little surprises. One more and the joke will most definitely be on you. Do you understand?"

The look on the Russian's face made Henry Jones shrink back a little, the icy glare more than he wanted to endure right now.

"Yes, all right. Come this way and don't… don't touch anything. I don't have time to explain what might or might not be a problem."

After much traipsing along staircases and beneath the bunker in which they had recently been tied up and forced to watch those explosions, Napoleon, Illya and Kitt were once again back at UNCLE headquarters. Henry Jones was locked up with a psyche evaluation team and a talented interrogator; strange stories were emerging.

Mr. Waverly convened his usual de-brief meeting and asked of his men to give detailed explanations of their time at the THRUSH compound, for lack of a better description. Of course, it had blown itself to smithereens, and the men had escaped with only their good luck as a shield.

"Mr. Solo, to what end was this lunacy directed? I can't make head nor tails of it."

"Nor can I, sir. It seems that Henry Jones thought he could rules the world with a few explosives; threaten the travel industry, perhaps with his intention to blow up things. It's hard to ascertain how he expected this to work."

Waverly huffed and tamped on a pipe he would not actually light.

"The man is a terror, that's what he is. Blasted terror to the world and to himself. I suppose we should be glad there aren't more like him at the moment, although with THRUSH the danger is never far away.'

He raised his eyebrows as though searching for agreement.

"Very well. Please go and… find something to do, gentlemen. Good day."

With that the three younger men were dismissed. Each of them had a sense of wariness about Henry Jones. Somehow it just didn't seem over.

Illya was the only one with words for the occasion. Not even the usually glib Kittridge had anything to offer about their recent experiences.

"I believe we will need to re-examine the site, backtrack where Henry has been and who he's been talking to, doing business with. There's more to him that the silly show he put on for us. He may be slightly eccentric, but he's no fool."

Napoleon tilted his head as though to get better reception from the signal Illya was sending out.

"Why? I mean, what else could there be? We have Henry, and his compound is destroyed."

Kitt was anxious to get on to the next assignment. Jones had given him the _heebie jeebies_, a phrase he'd only recently heard and it applied to this case very well.

"I for one da not wish to revisit the man, either in person or otherwise. He's a looney, a nutter. Why don't we just leave it at that, eh Illya?"

The Russian knew better than to continue. His friends were not sensing what he knew must certainly be true. He'd give it some time, do a little research.

"Yes, perhaps you are correct. Let us go about our business here and not dwell on what is already a _fait accompli."_

Kitt didn't catch it, but Napoleon knew this wasn't over.

"Drinks then? I believe it's just about quittin' time."

The three each retrieved what he needed before leaving the building, the prospect of a friendly conversation sounded like a proper ending to the day.

Meanwhile, in the bowels of the building sat Henry Jones. No one knew what was on his mind.

No one.


	2. Chapter 2

Illya Kuryakin was puzzling over something. Sitting in the Canteen, alone and as far into the corner of the room as he could arrange to be seated, the blond agent reviewed the events of the past few days. He had nothing conclusive on which to base his sense of foreboding, yet every instinct he possessed was pointing him towards yielding to it.

Waverly's Soviet Wunderkind, a term that Kuryakin abhorred and that his partner, Solo, reverently eschewed, was nonetheless so well versed in the science of explosives (in addition to quantum mechanics), that any thoughts he had on the recent affair with the THRUSH scoundrel Henry Jones was worth exploring. Illya was attempting to figure out a way to explain to his superior just _how much _more.

When Napoleon entered the Canteen he immediately spotted the morose figure seated in the corner. Illya sat with his face in his hand, the very image of someone in a dreary mood.

"Say, what's bothering you now, tovarisch?"

Illya grunted something unintelligible, probably due to the fact that his mouth was buried in the palm of his hand. Napoleon's quizzical expression prompted the blond to say it once more.

"I said 'the meeting'."

Raised eyebrows and a half smirk from his partner did not lighten the Russian's mood.

"We have not heard the last of Henry Jones, Napoleon. I am certain of it. The way he treated us to that little show was a preamble of some sort, in spite of his admission concerning the destruction of that facility we were in.'

Now it was Illya with the raised eyebrows.

"Mark my words, my friend, he has something else planned. The question is whether or not he has the capability to launch it from where he is now."

Napoleon knew Illya wasn't speaking without having given this a lot of thought. The smirk gave way to a look of concern that mirrored the expression on his friend's face.

"So, what do you propose we do about it, Illya? Waverly will most likely give you the go ahead to proceed however you think is necessary. He does respect your opinion in these things; you've more than proven yourself, in a very short period of time."

Illya nodded, his expression was less strained as he realized the support he would have from his partner and Mr. Waverly. Now it was a matter of solving this puzzle. The first clues were in the original explosions that had been witnessed by Napoleon and himself, and Kitt Kittridge.

The three of them had been on separate missions, each on a different continent. Jones had gone to a great deal of trouble to gather them together for his little production. The intense interrogation sessions with UNCLE's best had yielded little in the way of explanations for any of Jones' actions. Whether or not he was as demented as it appeared was a matter of conjecture, at best. So far, Henry Jones was outwitting the experts.

Within the hour Solo and Kuryakin were seated across from Alexander Waverly. As the head of UNCLE Northwest fumbled in his coat pocket for a pipe he expected to find there, the two younger men waited. Not long ago they had been partnered and then touted as the poster boys for détente: A Soviet and an American, working together for law and order. Only the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement had been able to command the bragging rights for this unlikely union, and no one except Waverly could take the credit. Wiley and wise, the old man had engineered the partnership from the first time he laid eyes on the young Soviet.

Sitting in front of him now, the young man from unlikely beginnings in the Ukraine and the suave American were as much like college frat brothers as the deadly, efficient agents they really were. Waverly was proud, and much like a professor, he welcomed his students into the classroom that only he could bring to life.

A final tamp on the pipe bowl, the strike of a match and then a plume of hard won smoke that spiraled to the heights above the three men. Illya resolved to not follow its path as it trailed above their heads, while Napoleon extended his arms, checking his cuffs as though it were a prescribed action before this meeting could begin.

"Gentlemen… er, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Yes sir."

"I believe you have some concerns about… Henry Jones.'

The bushy eyebrows rose with the furrows in Waverly's forehead as he looked at the blond questioningly.

"Is that correct?"

Illya swallowed. He wasn't afraid of Alexander Waverly… exactly. He was however always mindful of the consequences of failing to meet the man's expectations. It was a state of mind that Napoleon still failed to comprehend entirely.

"Yes sir. Based on the situation we encountered in Jones' compound, I believe that there is still some danger of his scheme continuing to advance."

Waverly took a puff on the pipe, never taking his eyes off of the file in front of him.

"And, what is it that leads you to this opinion? Henry Jones is in custody, his compound destroyed…'

Another puff.

"I fail to understand how you have reached the conclusion that there is still eminent danger, Mr. Kuryakin."

Mr. Kuryakin swallowed again, cutting a glance at his partner to see if he was still with him.

He was. Blind faith, perhaps.

"Yes, well…um… I observed, while in Jones' custody…'

Another look at Napoleon.

"There was a separate set of controls that he indicated were to be utilized for a second assault. Jones, in fact, told us that he was going to blow up THRUSH Central. I believe that it was a ruse intended to divert our efforts once the compound was destroyed."

Waverly held the pipe, his eyes now focused on the blond man at his table. Illya continued.

"The three initial explosions, those detonations that we witnessed, were a show. I do not believe that Jones actually has, or had, the capabilities he tried to convince us were present. What I cannot quite figure out is what the purpose was, or why he wanted the three of us in particular to be there."

Waverly took a deep breath, a cleansing breath as it were, and stared into the blue eyes of his Russian agent. _No guile in this one_, was his first thought. It was out of place and yet utterly undeniable.

"All right, I'll concede the possibility that Henry Jones was manipulating us with a false show of strength. To what end? What is he hopes to gain by telling UNCLE that he intends to blow up THRUSH Central?"

Napoleon remembered something, recalled that it was in the report as well.

"Mr. Waverly, Jones did somewhat facetiously ask if he could join UNCLE. Do you suppose that is the actual intent here? Perhaps he really is trying to leave THRUSH, and figured the best way out was to gain our attention by…"

"By luring us in with a common goal. Yes, that could be it, Napoleon."

Illya was glad to have another voice in this.

"I see. Yes, I see how this might be plausible, and clever if he really did intend this."

Waverly was impressed, both with Henry Jones' little production and the tenacity of his agents in not letting go of this affair so easily.

"Very well, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin… Go and see what you can get out of Henry Jones, rather more than has been accomplished up until now I should think. I suggest sooner than later."

Dismissed. Next stop, Interrogation Room 2.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a swirling mass of young people, caught up in the pulsing rhythms and cacophony of sound inside the trendy discothèque. Napoleon looked out over the sea of bleached blondes in search of a head of naturally blond hair; that of his partner.

Illya was lurking in the corner of the noisy establishment, cursing beneath his breath at the bad luck that had brought him here. The interrogation of Henry Jones had gone badly. Very badly. Instead of the disclosures hoped for by the Russian agent, Jones had instead refused to talk and then, without warning or time to intervene, had bitten down on a hidden cyanide cap in his left lower molar.

Jones was history before medical could be summoned, his writhing transformed into a still and very dead villain. Kuryakin had cursed then as well. Whatever Jones had been hiding from the UNCLE agents was lost forever; whatever nefarious plan Henry Jones had envisioned, perhaps left undone, would remain a mystery.

The only good news in this was that Jones had been unable to unleash the second phase, something that did little to solve Illya's current problem. With Henry Jones gone, Napoleon had immediately set out to try and catch the only apprentice to the man's madness, and here was apparently where she was said to be most nights.

Napoleon heard his partner's voice coming through the small earpiece, recognized the ire even in the noisy disco.

"Just hang in there, Illya. I have it on good information that Carla Daily will be here any time."

A roll of the blue eyes was not difficult to imagine.

"Any time? That could mean, quite literally, _any time_. I hope we aren't looking at an entire evening in this … _establishment_.''

Napoleon understood Illya's disappointment in losing Henry Jones. That cyanide was bad business, and still in use by THRUSH. It was a shock to see it in action.

"Hang in there, tovarisch. If we can take her in for questioning, we still might get that second phase you're convinced was in the planning. In fact… wait, I see her. Commence operation Carla."

Both men closed their communicators and zeroed in on yet another bleached blonde, this one a dangerous THRUSH operative whose information about Jones' operation might be the answer to halting any more explosive encounters.

Before Napoleon could reach the woman, another man came out of the shadows. Illya saw him point a weapon just as Carla Daily turned to look into the stranger's eyes. It didn't faze him, or stop him from shooting the blonde, striking her down with one bullet.

Illya was rushing between screaming patrons as Napoleon sprinted after the gunman. At the door were two more UNCLE agents, ready for action as they brought down the man who had killed the only person who could solve this riddle.

Carla was left to the care of the management as Napoleon and Illya both headed towards the trio of men now outside of the discothèque. Napoleon had not been able to see the assassin's face inside, and as he approached there was a shocking recognition. A memory of riding in a jeep over rough terrain while explosions rocked the night took the agent back to his time in Korea. Seated next to him in that jeep was a fellow officer, a man known for his abrupt manner and lack of humor.

"Jake Spencer. You work for THRUSH?"

Napoleon was shocked, although the image he had of the brusque young man from Montana was cold and ruthless. The face that turned to him now was emotionless, his words clipped.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Solo. I just needed to take care of some personal business.'

Spencer looked warily at his former brother in arms.

"You a cop?"

Napoleon shook his head, disbelief now evident. Illya watched this, wondered but didn't ask how the two men knew each other.

"Why did you shoot her, Jake? Why Carla?"

Jake Spencer looked around at the four men surrounding him, heard the sirens as they screamed their approach. Why?

"She cheated. I got even."

Illya bit back another curse.

"Are you saying that this was a matter of… a love affair?"

Spencer looked from one to the other of the four men in front of him. How had he gotten himself into this mess? Why had he cared so much for that woman, anyway? She was…

"Yes. We … she cheated on me. With some squirrel of a guy named…"

"Henry Jones."

Illya and Napoleon spoke the name simultaneously, causing Jake to stop in mid sentence, his wary expression not yet relaxed.

"She was not cheating, she was merely in business with the man. You have made an error, a very serious one."

Napoleon winced at the finality of Illya's statement. This man was someone the older agent knew, had at one time trusted in the day to day drama that had been Korea. How could this be salvaged without degrading the principles of the U.N.C.L.E.?

"Jake, this woman, Carla Daily, was a known agent for a criminal organization. We were here to try and take her in to our headquarters for questioning. She has, we believe, been part of a plot to achieve some very great damage through violent means; we just don't know how."

Illya could see where this was going. Although not partnered for a very long time, he had learned to read Napoleon Solo, and this was spelling out some type of mercy for Jake Spencer. He would learn why later.

"I suggest we take this conversation back to headquarters. Perhaps Mr. Spencer can shed some light on Miss Daily's activities."

That last was said with a smirk unique to the Russian. He had planned on solving this mystery, and now all he had was a jilted lover who seemed to possess a history with Napoleon.

The orchestrated chaos of the discothèque faded behind the men as they headed towards their cars, and hopefully some answers.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the same interrogation room in which Henry Jones had ended his life with a single cyanide capsule. This time Jake Spencer sat in a chair in the center of the room. Standing across from him was Illya, his solemn expression conveying nothing of the frustration he felt at this newest development.

It had been so close. Carla Daily would have provided the information necessary to close this affair with the details of whatever mischief Jones had planned. Instead of that scenario the U.N.C.L.E. had only this lovesick assassin, and in a strange turn of events he had served with Napoleon in Korea. Stranger things had happened, to be sure, but not lately.

Spencer seemed to be in a daze of some sort. Napoleon would never have taken him for a weak man, or one given to bouts of emotional upheavals. But, the evidence against him was ironclad; he had killed Carla Daily with a single gunshot, admitting to a jealousy that had turned deadly.

Images were playing in Jake's mind; a red rose left on Carla's doorstep after an argument, the remnant of a love letter found in his jacket. He saw her eyes, remembered looking into their depths and wishing life could be lived there, blocking out the memories of Korea, flashes of gunfire in the dark of night.

"Did Carla ever say anything to you about her activities with THRUSH? Is it possible that you heard the name Henry Jones?"

Illya knew the answers, but he asked the questions anyway. Henry Jones hadn't been able to complete his plans, and the only link to those plans was now dead. The man responsible for killing her was useless to this investigation, and Napoleon was hovering in the background, hoping to find a way out for his former friend. Perhaps that really was all that would come of this.

Jake Spencer looked up, taking in the room and assessing the odds of getting out of this mess alive. He didn't know what Napoleon Solo was into these days, but this blond guy was cold enough to make Spencer believe that a wrong answer could be fatal.

"I… look, I'm guilty as hell. I shot Carla, but I don't know anything about this Henry Jones you keep bringing up. Carla…'

Jake had another image of the blonde, and it made him shudder.

"God, I loved that woman. What have I done?"

Spencer broke down and wept, prompting Illya to sigh in exasperation. He looked into the two-way mirror, fully aware that Napoleon and Mr. Waverly were watching; equally aware that his partner would be walking through the door…

Napoleon entered, exchanged glances with Illya and then proceeded to Jake's side.

"Jake. Hey, listen to me… Jake!"

Jake stopped, his head down and shoulders slumped. Napoleon put a hand on the other man's arm, gripping it in a manner that said more than idle words.

"I know you guys think I know something, but with Carla… We didn't talk about anything like that. She was … I wanted to marry her, but then I found out she was seeing this Jones fella. I thought… well, you know what I thought. And now Carla's dead and … just shoot me, Solo. Don't waste time with a trial, just shoot me and have done with it."

Napoleon sighed. What were the chances of meeting up with Jake Spencer, and under these circumstances? Big odds. Definitely, big odds.

"Listen Jake, we need to figure this out. Carla worked for some very bad people, and no matter how much affection you had for her, she was a dangerous woman. The man she worked with was also dangerous, and was threatening to blow up … well, much of the world. If you can think of anything, anything at all…"

Jake shook his head. There was nothing in all of their encounters or conversations that would help Napoleon and his brooding friend. Jake shrugged, his eyes conveying the answer.

"Okay Jake. That's all. I don't know what's going to happen next, but just hang in there. We'll figure something out."

Illya heard that last and wondered how there could be any other outcome to this besides Jake Spencer going to jail for murder.


	5. Chapter 5

"Is this what you had in mind, lover?"

The precocious blonde sat down on Illya's lap with a flourish, her legs crossed in a manner that allowed him to see a shapely thigh. That lovely leg was competing for attention with the arm she had wrapped around his neck as he was pulled closer to the cleavage she so generously shared.

The mask, however, was the focus of the Russian's attention. It was, really.

"Betty, the mask you are wearing is perfect. I assure you that the gentleman about which we spoke will be more than generous when he sees how carefully you have followed his instructions. There you go, then..."

Illya winced slightly as the enthusiastic Betty hopped up from his lap, the residue of her presence not quite ready to retire. The path she wove towards Mac Neally had a precocious bounce to it, and his response indicated success of the UNCLE agent's plan.

Illya pulled out his communicator and spoke to his partner in a hushed tone.

"Napoleon, can you see them? Our lovely Betty seems already to have enchanted the big bird."

Laughter on the other end elicited a smile from the recovering Russian.

"Yes, I see them. He will no doubt want to keep the mask, and we will have our transmitter successfully located within the highly vaunted secure penthouse that Neally occupies. Well done, Illya."

The blond smiled at that. It was good to have a plan work so well.

"I believe we can take our leave now. Meet me out front?"

Napoleon nodded, never taking his eyes off of the departing couple as they headed for the THRUSH official's apartment.

"Nightcap? I'd say we earned one."

Both agents closed their communicators and headed for the front of the club. The information given to them by Jake Spencer had led them here, mostly due to the contents of Carla's diary. Henry Jones had not been working completely alone after all. Not only had Carla been involved, but this new character, Mac Neally, was somehow a part of the crazy scheme to blow up cities all over the world.

At least Jake was getting a break; even if he had killed Carla, the fact that she was a known criminal within the THRUSH organization was going to make things a little easier on the Korean vet. Napoleon had done what he could, and even Jake had to admit it was more than he deserved.

When Solo and Kuryakin had exited the Green Cat Club and were hailing a taxi, they failed to notice a window opening up in the penthouse apartment twelve stories above them.


	6. Chapter 6

Inside the plush apartment in which Mac Neally kept himself (and an impressive, if not odd assortment of treasures), the bountiful Betty was gasping for air behind the feathered mask she wore. Neally, in a manner most common to the breed of men within THRUSH, had a strange penchant for things such as the mask worn by the blonde, and had allowed himself to become immediately enamored of the beautiful woman. In his haste to conquer her and the feathers that adorned the mask, his heart had become stressed beyond repair. The middle-aged lothario had launched himself towards Betty, causing her to run in earnest towards the window that she then opened, looking for some means of escape.

Upon turning back towards the ailing Mac Neally, Betty angled her body towards the wall, leaving an opening at the window through which the spurned lover now spilled like clotted cream, past the window sash and down to the pavement below. It was a stroke of good fortune and typical Kuryakin astuteness that saved both him and Napoleon from being at the bottom of the unfortunate scene that was the splattered remains of Mac Neally.

Above, looking out of the window she had opened, Betty saw the end of her evening and all hope of monetary gain from the newly deceased, would be benefactor. Illya happened to glance up and catch a look of resignation from the woman he had hoped would gain for them valuable information. This had been, after all, their last hope of unraveling the mystery of Henry Jones.

"Well, I don't suppose you have anything else planned for us tonight, tovarisch."

Illya shook his head.

"Not a thing. As far as I know, this is the end of this rabbit's trail of clues and strange characters. Henry Jones is dead, as is Clara and now Mac Neally. That makes the entire conspiracy as far as we know."

Napoleon scowled at the lack of closure on this affair. Now only had they failed to find the real plot, but now they had lost every member of THRUSH who's participation had fueled the plan.

"What are you going to do with … what's her name? Betty? You really can't just leave her up there, she might be in danger."

Illya groaned, his eyebrows arching into a puppy dog expression that worked on the secretaries at headquarters but had little effect on his partner.

"No way, you need to go up there and deal with miss buxom. She has the mask anyway, and you might as well retrieve the bug you planted."

Illya slumped noticeably and headed back inside. The ambulance had arrived along with police and the usual gawkers. Neally's body was covered and placed on a gurney for transport to the morgue. Napoleon searched the faces, wondering if any of the local THRUSH were in attendance. Nope, he didn't recognize anyone. What a mess.

Illya was approaching the door to Neally's penthouse suite when he heard a gunshot. Pulling out his own weapon, Illya checked the door and, finding it locked, kicked it in with one forceful move.

As the splintered door landed with a 'thud!', Illya was greeted by a loaded gun pointing at his heart.


	7. Chapter 7

Illya stood very still as he stared into the barrel of what must have been Neally's own pistol. Betty's hand was shaking as she stepped towards the wary blond in the doorway.

"Here, take the blasted thing. I picked it up and … O my gawd, this is just awful."

Instead of finishing the hand off of the gun into Illya's hand, the quivering woman dropped it, which caused it to fire yet again. Illya grabbed Betty and thrust her out into the hallway and out of harm's way. As it happened, the gun had landed facing the open window; Illya chose to not pursue where the bullet might have landed.

Instead of that course of action and thought, the Russian was intent on retrieving the bug in Betty's feathered mask. To that end, Illya decided he might as well just take the mask. With that and Betty in tow, agent and innocent (a slightly dubious designation) proceeded back downstairs into the swarm of official and unofficial bystanders.

Napoleon was waiting for his partner when he saw Illya and Betty walking through the door to the Green Cat Club and out onto the sidewalk.

"Illya! Over here, and don't forget to bring the lady."

The two blondes (that is, the blond and the blonde), made their way to where the senior UNCLE agent had been conversing with a New York homicide detective named Gilley Hyde. Periodically it did become necessary to join forces with the police, and when events were as public as this had been it was inevitable.

Napoleon introduced Detective Hyde to his partner, eliciting from the policeman slightly more than a nod of acknowledgement.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, I'm sure. That's an unusual name you got there Mr. Kuryakin. Where're you from?"

Illya was accustomed to the question.

"UNCLE Headquarters. Now, if you don't mind, it is probably best if we leave this investigation in your capable hands and return to file our reports on this incident."

Detective Hyde smiled, turning his attention to Betty who was still trembling slightly in the aftermath of the events in the penthouse.

"Miss … ?"

Napoleon was quick to intervene, smiling as he rolled out what he thought was an acceptable version of the story.

"This is Miss … er… Betty. Betty …"

"Nivens. Betty Nivens and I'm pleased to meet you officer. You know…"

Illya hoped Napoleon had a plan.

"Yes, Betty Nivens. Betty, this is Detective Hyde. Um… Detective, Betty was in the room when Mr. Neally took that horrible leap from his penthouse window. As you can see she is still upset by this…'

Napoleon took off his jacket and wrapped it around the scantily dressed woman.

"We really do need to get her back to …"

Hyde shook his head.

"Sorry Mr. Solo. Miss Nivens is an eye-witness to this, uh… well, we haven't ruled on what it is, exactly. Miss Nivens…'

This was going to take some diplomacy on his part. It wasn't every day that a guy had to tangle with the U.N.C.L.E.

"… you'll need to come with me back to the station. I have a few questions that need answering. You understand."

Betty didn't understand, and she was a little bit scared after what she had been through. Mr. Kuryakin hadn't said anything about people dying when he asked her to wear that mask.

"What about the ma…"

"Betty, why don't you just let Detective Hyde guide you with his questions. Please don't worry about anything, you've done nothing wrong."

Napoleon hoped the woman wouldn't say anything more about the mask, or what she was doing up in Mac Neally's penthouse apartment. The police didn't need to know everything about this case, only that Betty had been with Neally and that the man had somehow left his apartment via the window. Simple. And true.

Betty nodded her head; a modicum of understanding was mixed in with a general lack of comprehension as to what Napoleon wanted from her. It did seem as though he was hinting at keeping the mask a secret. That was fine. It was just a silly mask.

"You know, I knew a family back home named Hyde. I wonder if you're related to them…"

Detective Gilley Hyde doubted it, but years on the force had taught him that one method of gaining the confidence of suspects and even innocent people was to feign some type of interest in whatever it was they wanted to say.

"Ya don't say. Well, I suppose there's Hydes all over the world."

Betty thought that was funny. She thought the detective was sort of cute, actually.

"Yeah, they were nice, especially Harry."

Napoleon didn't crack a smile, just looked at Illya and then the detective.

Finally it hit Illya.

"Harry Hyde? That's a bit cruel, to subject a child to a name like that."

Gilley finally laughed out loud, his own recollection of a family member with the same name was of a chubby, redheaded boy who had endured years of tormenting comments.

"Ah Betty, er… Miss Nivens, I needed a good laugh. Gentlemen, I think I have it under control for now. I'll call you if anything of interest comes along. Miss Nivens can accompany me to the station and then …'

Betty flashed a smile that could have warmed up a very cold night.

"… Well, we can talk about that later."

Napoleon nudged Illya, indicating it was time to take their leave of the scene. Betty waved a pert farewell, her traumatic encounter already filed behind the potential she saw in Detective Hyde.

As the two agents approached their car, Napoleon looked across the street at an aging hotel, a remnant of what remained of the un-renovated buildings in this emerging district. Clearly there was no one tending to this abandoned business in spite of the tired old sign that boasted an invitation with its worn out neon VACANCY.

"You know Illya, I think that just about sizes up this affair. I believe we're all done with Henry Jones. What do you say we grab something to eat and then head back to write this one up… and off."

Illya looked up at the sign and sighed. He had invested too much energy into Henry Jones' wild scheme, and in the end the only thing to come of it would appear to be a burgeoning romance between Betty and Detective Hyde.

"Do you think someone actually named their son Harry Hyde?"

Napoleon chuckled. He could imagine how bizarre things sometimes appeared to his Russian partner. Even if one could understand, or master a language, it didn't mean he always properly interpreted the people speaking it.

"I once knew a man named…'

Napoleon laughed out loud at his recollection of the man he came to know and admire during his early years in UNCLE.

"…ahh… he was a great guy, though."

Illya waited.

"I don't read minds, you know."

"Oh, sorry. Seymour. His name was Seymour Butts."

Illya's eyes widened and then, finally, he laughed out loud in a guffaw that surprised his amused partner. The two of them then let the release of tension escalate as they laughed until tears were running from their eyes.

"Really? Seymour Butts? Harry Hyde and Seymour Butts… you Americans are a bizarre lot, you know that…'

Illya removed his handkerchief to wipe the moisture from his face. He hadn't laughed that hard in…

"Thank you, Napoleon. That is the funniest thing I've heard in a long time. I suppose we both needed to laugh at something."

Each man considered the seriousness of what they encountered on a daily basis, and how infrequent it was that they had occasion to simply enjoy a good laugh.

"A merry heart doeth good like a medicine."

"Ah, you are familiar with King James, I take it. That is unexpected, coming from a Soviet Citizen."

Napoleon was always amazed at Illya's knowledge of literature and, in many instances, the bible. He was an interesting guy.

"Not everyone in Russia is a godless communist, my friend. Besides, I took a literature course at Cambridge that included the poetry and prose of the Old Testament. They're rather proud of King James, it seems."

Napoleon was behind the wheel as the agents slipped into the leather seats of their sedan. The evening would be punctuated with chuckles as Solo and Kuryakin drove to one of their favorite restaurants. Both men were smiling now, the prospect of a good meal and another day all that was really important.

Oh, and a good laugh once in a while.


End file.
